by William DoreskiPlanting the sacred turnip on a hillside above the sea, we construct a large rock crib to suggest an altar, and fill it with compost and coal-black loam. We center the turnip-seed aligned east and west to enjoy the full concentration of light. When this single turnip matures we’ll pluck it like a shrunken head and serve with a good Polish ham. Everyone who samples it will thrive in the coming year. Women will bear powerful infants, men will stride colossally through landscapes muted by late autumn’s earthy pastels. Meanwhile as we finish planting, a storm has brewed. The sea plaits rollers bigger than houses. The tall green scallops pour over the line of cottages and strip their shingles. The highway cringes like pasta boiling. We kneel in fear behind the stone crib but the sea can’t reach this high up the hillside. We’ll have to wait for the storm to relax. The wind shucks up and over the hillcrest, shaking the earth. Afraid to watch the bluster of surf, we bury our faces in each other. Let’s hope the sacred turnip germinates quickly enough to absorb the energy the storm enforces as sea and sky threaten to mate.